ed mockingly away.

Lowe was mightily taken with him. There was little warmth or veneration
in that hard justice's nature. But Mr. Dangerfield had a way with him
that few men with any sort of taste for the knowledge of evil could
resist; and the cold-eyed justice of the peace hung on his words with an
attentive rapture, and felt that he was drinking deep and pleasant
draughts from the sparkling fountains of knowledge; and was really
sorry, and shook him admiringly by the hand, when Dangerfield, who had
special business at home, rose up in his brisk way, and flashed a
farewell over the company from his spectacles.

'If Mr. Dangerfield really means to stay here, he must apply for the
commission of the peace,' said Mr. Lowe, so soon as the door shut. 'We
must put it upon him. I protest I never met a man so fitted by nature
and acquirements to make a perfectly useful magistrate. He and I, Sir,
between us, we'd give a good account of this part of the county; and
there's plenty of work, Sir, if 'twere only between this and Dublin;
and, by George, Sir, he's a wonderful diverting fellow, full of
anecdote. Wonderful place London, to be sure.'

'And a good man, too, in a quiet way,' said Colonel Strafford, who could
state a fact. ''Tisn't every rich man has the heart to part with his
money as he does; he has done many charities here, and especially he has
been most bountiful to poor Sturk's family.'

'I know that,' said Lowe.

'And he sent a fifty pound note by the major there to poor Sally Nutter
o' Monday last; he'll tell you.'

And thus it is, as the foul fiend, when he vanishes, leaves a smell of
brimstone after him, a good man leaves a fragrance; and the company in
the parlour enjoyed the aroma of Mr. Dangerfield's virtues, as he
buttoned his white surtout over his breast, and dropped his vails into
the palms of the carbuncled butler and fuddled footman in the hall.

It was a clear, frosty, starlit night. White and stern was the face
which he turned upward for a moment to the sky. He paused for a second
in the ray of candle-light that gleamed through Puddock's window-shutter,
and glanced on the pale dial of his large gold watch. It was only
half-past eight o'clock. He walked on, glancing back over his shoulder,
along the Dublin road.

'The drunken beast. My mind misgives me he'll disappoint,' muttered the
silver spectacles, gliding briskly onward.

When he reached the main street he peered curiously before him unde